Little midnight bunny
Hid in deepest umbra
Cunning coyotes prowl
A spotted owl searches
Wherever can you go?
A rattler reached your hole
A wily weasel roams
Inky shadows shrinking
As the moon is rising
Wherever can you go?
A striped skunk skulks your way
Hunker down, let him stay
Sleeping inside three oak walls and a creaky double door
Is something that hasn't glimpsed the sun
Since I first hid it from my pupils.
I've taken great care in decorating the sides of the wardrobe
With carvings of flowers and horses,
And everything else one would expect
From an old closet such as it.
I've stacked my plump balls of mismatched yarn
On the tippy top of its dusty roof,
so that when people ask me why I have such an old closet
In my new room, I can tell them it's for storage.
I've also locked the door with a little something I call
Omission and deflection, two very useful tools
I keep in the tool box under my bed,
Also not in view of any shafts of light that may trespass
Into the room through the bedroom window.
I stole all the stars and hid them in my heart,
Leaving the sun a chance to remember the day that will one day start,
When we loved, forgetting the night that demands its rightful place,
Maybe in a sincere haste, to love you again beneath the rain's embrace.
At dawn, our love ignites repeatedly and intense,
Letting your womb smolder with my immense offense,
Birthing the happiness of our flight without clear wings,
On the brink of a moment, a dream that forever clings.
In front of your nude icon, dizzy, I sigh and get drunk,
With you, without wine, in my eager mind that’s never sunk,
I come to you humbly, to worship, to fall at your feet,
Sipping memories to kill them, from dawn to dawn in a sweep,
Those old and forgotten ones, that no longer make you shiver,
Beautiful one, perfume of memories, inevitable scent of flowers that deliver.
She smiled in rooms that cracked her spine,
where beauty bruised and grace meant lie.
They called her calm, not knowing this–
each breath she took was clenched like fists.
The silence praised was not her peace.
It was the cage. She found the keys.
.
that spruce 'tiz 'bout
six foot tall
sprigz girlie
sprigz
az transparent az
yourn
naked 'neath
that diaphanous
swim dress
It’s an interesting thing that little children do,
Catching fireflies in a jar not thinking it through.
They cover the jar and tighten the jar lid,
Placing it in the bookcase from mother it’s hid.
Tucked in their beds in a very dark room,
The tiny lights dancing as if to a tune.
Then slowly one by one the lights go out,
It wasn’t a good idea, of this I don’t doubt.
Author Eileen Clark 2022
He was the top of the mark.
Puffed up and proud.
Nothing was as beautiful.
He strutted so loud.
We peahens were askance
At his arrogant dance.
He made us all sick
As he made his pick.
The peahen that was chosen
Was the one who said she’d never go.
We all heard her giggling.
She is such a ho.
I saw the pig and the clown coming my way with their drink.
They were well into their cups. I had this quick ugly think.
I jumped into a bush and tried to become invisible to them.
They were crazed with alcohol, two silly old men.
Slap happy and nutty, they were sloshing their words.
I rolled my eyes at their inebriation; both were quite absurd.
Where is that giant fork and that delightful silver spoon?
I ignored their laughter, as they howled at the moon.
they're having a happy chat
they would not dream to own
some scarecrow with a stone
beneath its frightening hat
scheming fancy and laughter
cheering and chanting aloud
they'd not venture to alter
one frail reassurance found
their stories all have flair
if thoughts are loud or bare
those children sleep lightly
they'll whisper thoughtfully
shun a straightforward stare
through squabbles skillfully
Was Amid and Should Have Hid
was always amid
when we know he should have hid
so of should get rid
Jim Horn
Mister Johns was pretty fat for his height
He snarfed every piece of choc'late in sight
His wife the candy was hid
You know what Mr. Johns did?
He went out trick-or-treating like a kid
Oh maybe someday you will understand,
why I talk of leaving this fast land.
I’m going somewhere for strange people,
I know it will have that church steeple.
My memories of this place shall stay,
deep in my mind til by dying day.
Grass shall be thickest and greenest,
kite flying there will be at its best.
The sky will be according to thought,
whether it be sunshine, rain or drought.
Dancing to Sisqo
like a dad at a disco
that ain’t the diss though
you’re a straight up pissed ho
handbag on the dance floor
where your sandbag **** fall
straps see you trip fool
your ugly face hit sore
wake up toothless
seeking a toothbrush
though it be useless
what a flipping doofus
go home harbour a criminal
brain damage acts horrible
talking his world of bull
so thick you believe the tool,
keep mans away and hidden
they’re out to get rid of him
swears on his kid again
but the kid don’t remember him,
causes trouble is he worth it
when all say he deserves it
pause, think, is he nervous?
6 foot under the surface,
when you’re just a pissed ho
out to dance at a disco
now granting a wish so
this dreg ain’t a missed bro.
Yesterday delightful. Sixty degrees.
Could have warmed us up.
I hid in the house, frightened by the love of it.
Today I am sitting in my yard, wearing zebra pajamas.
A zip up suit with a pink fringed hood and a tail.
The tail is not comfortable, but cute.
The wind is brisk, almost too much so.
I do not care.
I am content.
Soaking up nature’s offerings.
She hid under my desk.
Waiting for me.
To discover her.
Thinking it was going to be hilarious.
It was not.
When the principal took a seat in my chair,
Attempting in vain to wipe smiles
Off two culprits faces
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